


The Edge of Two Points

by flute25



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I don't even know how to tag this thing, Light-Hearted, Mischief, Obi wan & qui gon team, Seidr, The Force, Wormholes, black holes, crack kind of, dear diary, lots of talk about the force/seidr, mostly - Freeform, slight crack, some norse mythology, young loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flute25/pseuds/flute25
Summary: Obi-wan Kenobi and Qui-gon Jinn meet an extraordinary Force-user after a diplomatic mission goes sour.Or -Qui-gon's intergalactic shopping spree lands both him and his Padawan in a spot of trouble on a long-forgotten planet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought this day would come, and yet here we are, writing crossovers. 
> 
> This idea came from a post going around Tumblr wherein Star Wars was congratulating Marvel on Infinity War's opening weekend. (And somewhere in some secret bunker, Mickey Mouse is lighting cigars with $100 bills, a particularly wicked smile gracing his face before diving into a vault of gold coins à la Scrooge McDuck - because we all know Disney owns our asses and about 90% of the media we consume.)
> 
> ANYWAY, the whole thing had an image of Rey's hand handing a lightsaber to Tony Stark's hand, which produced a few images of Stark with a lightsaber, and Loki with a lightsaber (okay, so the Loki one was mine, I admit). This, in turn, produced a comment about how Loki would have acquired the weapon, and speculation as to if he would have reenacted the "MLBERG IT'S ME" snake incident except with Qui-gon and Obi-wan. 
> 
> And thus a story was born. 
> 
> This is one of my odder efforts, and the style is wildly different between the two chapters. I made the epilogue a separate, third chapter as I go back and forth feeling like it's too...well, _too_. I will let you be the judge of how this all pieces together (or not). I have no idea how I got here but it demanded to be written. 
> 
> For reference purposes, this takes place somewhere late in Obi-wan and Qui-gon's apprenticeship, and for Loki, before the whole house of lies Odin had built around his identity came tumbling down (damnit, Odin! *shakes fist at sky*). I am including some references to Norse mythology and taking liberties with the extent of Loki's powers because they are rather inconsistent across mediums, but my favorite Jotun/Asgardian mage is a badass, okay?
> 
> This is...kind of crack but not? Somewhere in the middle, I suppose.
> 
> Which is kind of the point. 
> 
> Alright, enough intro. Enjoy, friends :)

“Master, I can’t believe you almost lost your lightsaber. Again.”

“Nonsense, Anakin, it wasn’t lost. My lightsaber was merely misplaced for a certain span of time during which I had little doubt that I would reacquire it. Unlike you, I _do_ remember the lessons my Master imparted to me.” 

Ahsoka snorted into her drink, the pungent Rodian liquid tickling the inside of her nose. She took another sip, glancing over the rim of her cup. Anakin was halfway through a dramatic eye roll, his arm waving dismissively at the auburn-haired Jedi.

“ _Riiiiight_ , Master. I’m sure that’s exactly what you were thinking when that gang of pirates had you surrounded.”

Obi-wan’s smug expression strained, as he found sudden interest in the surface of the wooden table.

“Yes, well…”

“And, I’m sure that Master Qui-gon taught you to attempt a mind trick on _seven_ criminals at once.”

“Now, Anakin - “

“And!” her Master practically shouted, raising a pointed finger in the air as if he were a character straight out of one of those awful law holodramas. 

“Alright, _fine,_ Anakin! It was lost!” exclaimed Obi-wan, his features furrowing in irritation. The older Jedi crossed his arms over chest with a huff. “Are you quite happy now?”

A slight snicker served as Anakin’s answer as he turned to Ahsoka, giving her a wink. 

“Besides,” Obi-wan grumbled at the table, “it’s not like Qui-gon never lost _his_ saber.”

Anakin spun to face his former Master, his eyes sparkling with barely-restrained curiosity.

“Oh?”

Obi-wan didn’t answer right away, leaning back in his chair, staring into the distance, caught somewhere between fond nostalgia and reticence. There was something about that particular throaty sigh, the subtle arch of his eyebrows - an expression Ahsoka recognized only when Obi-wan spoke of his former master, Qui-gon Jinn.

“Well, it _is_ a rather interesting tale, I must say,” Obi-wan finally answered, his lips quirking as he added, “And, a cautionary story.”

“Oh goody. A moral,” Anakin deadpanned.

Obi-wan laughed and clapped his former student on the shoulder. “Come now, Anakin. You will enjoy this. It has all the hallmarks of an adventure you would find,” he searched for the right word, “…entertaining. Reckless behavior, following the Force, shape-shifters…” The older man feigned serious contemplation, putting a finger to his chin. “In fact, I do believe you might recall a similar incident - “

“Alright, alright, I get the point,” Anakin growled. “Just tell us the story.”

“Manners, Anakin,” Obi-wan chided, still smiling.

“It all started…”

 

* * *

 

When _Coruscant Travel_ published their end-of-the cycle article, “Top Planets for Your Next Vacation,” Draxus Tertiary was absent from the list. 

The year previous, it had also been left off. 

This should have come as no surprise, as there were very few lists, holobooks, or even flimsis that mentioned the far-away world. In fact, the only public list Draxus Tertiary had appeared on in the last decade was tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner of a charming pamphlet entitled “CONSPIRACY NOW,” next to an article linking the Gamorrean cheese trade to a shadow government in the Unknown Regions intent on overthrowing the Galactic Senate.

Needless to say, most Republic citizens remained blissfully unaware of Draxus Tertiary's existence.

Known as “Draxus T” to the small group of academics whose job it was to study such esoteric places, the planet was located on the edge of Wild Space, hanging precariously between an old, asteroid-riddled hyperspace route and a rather massive black hole. The combination of the two, in addition to some other unstudied cosmological quirks, meant the whole sector was an unstable whirlpool of strange gravitational forces, likely to collapse in on itself anytime between next year and next century, according to scientists. 

Such things tended to put a damper on intergalactic tourism. 

With little Republic oversight and even the majority of the top crime syndiacates wary of the strange energy surrounding the planet, Draxus T had developed into a kind-of haven for the odd and the occult - a place where certain unnamed beings of an esoteric bent came to rest, purchase wares, or practice mystical arts unheard of even by the Jedi Order. 

It was the type of place, Obi-wan Kenobi reflected, that drew his Master like moth to flame. 

“Master,” Obi-wan pulled the hood of his cloak tighter around his head, barely avoiding running into a large reptilian creature dressed head to…claw in red silk wrappings. The young Jedi mumbled an apology, hastening to catch up with the towering figure of Qui-gon Jinn, who was hunched over a low table several vendors away. 

“Why are we here again? Is this official Republic business?”

Qui-gon picked up a small glass vase from a collection of junk items piled on the showcase of the Ugnaught’s stall. Turning the item over in his hands, he peeked through the narrow mouth before setting the object down, where it was instantly unrecognizable in the motley assortment of useless glassware and metal components.

“Curious,” Qui-gon muttered, staring down at where the vase had been a second ago.

Obi-wan frowned. “Master?” 

Qui-gon finally acknowledged Obi-wan with a thin smile, raising his arm in an uncharacteristic, awkward motion before settling his hands on his hips. The older Jedi stared across the market, narrowing his gaze at a darkened stall in the far corner. 

“We’re here on business of a sort, Padawan. Consider it a fact-finding mission - an extension of our efforts on The Redoubt.”

“Efforts that didn’t get very far, Master. We couldn’t even receive clearance to travel to Pesfarvi to investigate those Force-suppression claims any further.”

A long sigh escaped Qui-gon. “I am aware, Obi-wan. Not all of our diplomatic efforts can be successful.”

So few of them had been lately. Tensions were rising between the Core worlds and the Outer Rim, punctuated by a series of demonstrations against the so-called unfair tax and trade regulations the Republic Senate had been levying against certain planets such as Naboo. Each mission, each disagreement the Jedi were sent to untangle was more difficult than the last, more dangerous to the well-being of the general citizenry and to the long period of peace and prosperity the Republic had enjoyed. Whispers of the unthinkable - of open rebellion and even secession by the few disgruntled systems - had reached the ears of the Jedi Council, but no one, not even Master Yoda himself, was able to imagine that becoming a reality. 

“In any event,” Qui-gon continued, “this corner of the universe has been neglected for some time, and given our last few experiences, it might be…prudent to learn all we can during this short detour.”

A reasonable explanation, but Obi-wan had little doubt that it was the rumors of mystical energy and esoteric Force practices that drew Qui-gon to this spot, rather than any sort of diplomatic reconnaissance. Obi-wan ran a grimy hand over his face, frowning as he wiped the sweaty, oily residue on his robes. There was little to be gained from actually bringing that point up, however, seeing as Qui-gon would be as stubborn as a gundark in denying that this so-called detour was just an excuse to mark another item off his "Master Dooku Was Interested in this Piece of Esoterica and Because of This I Must Travel There" list.

Obi-wan had not even met the man before he had left the Jedi Order, and from all accounts, Master Dooku's interest in Force oddities landed him in trouble with the Council on more than one occasion.

Like Master, like Padawan, he supposed.

“Come,” Qui-gon beckoned with one hand, his long legs transporting him swiftly across the square. 

“The will of the Force, then,” said Obi-wan to no one in particular, watching his Master’s retreating form with an air of resignation. Qui-gon disappeared into a small crowd of purple-cloaked beings (there was no better word to describe them as their billowing garments and large hoods rendered all attempt at identification of species impossible), leaving Obi-wan to track his Master by his Force presence alone. 

Obi-wan sighed, allowing himself a moment to reposition his own cloak, brushing some bright pink particles of undetermined origin from his shoulder before following in his Master’s direction. 

To call the market square dilapidated would be generous. Canvas stalls were haphazardly scattered around the perimeter of the space, most looking like a gentle sneeze would be enough to cause their imminent collapse. Brown, sickly buildings no more than two stories formed a wall on each side, their windows in various states of disrepair or complete absence. Four arches - if they could be called that - served as entryways into the plaza, one on each side of the square. They were placed (or punched through, Obi-wan thought wryly), with little regard to pattern, planning, or aesthetics. 

Obi-wan moved swiftly through the square, sidestepping a series of stone cairns with odd etchings (why anyone would need a series of path markers in what could be charitably called a city was a mystery to the Jedi). He bypassed a not-insignificant mound of sharp, deadly weapons (left out where anyone could impale themselves) and dutifully ignored the row of bubbling cauldrons emitting noxious fumes that caused the Jedi to sneeze five times consecutively. Twice.

Growling and pulling his hood tighter, Obi-wan followed the presence of his Master. The entire planet felt _other_ to him - the Force was strange here, ridiculously strong but slippery, seemingly flitting from dark to light and then through every hue in between. 

_The edge of two places_ , Qui-gon had said as explanation, before being distracted by an especially long-leafed plant in another stall.

“Obi-wan!” his Master called. 

The young Jedi searched in the direction of Qui-gon’s voice. The tall man was standing in front of a vendor who looked as weathered as the crumbling edifices around her. Small and bowed with grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, her prominent facial features were grossly out of proportion with the rest of her head. She held a golden orb in her hand, thrusting it towards his Master with more energy than should have been possible for someone in her condition.

“Very rare. For spells! Magic working! I think you need” the old woman exclaimed. “I give you good price. Only seven hundred.”

Qui-gon held up a large hand to the woman, palm forward, a slight smile on his face. “Magic, you say? I have heard many refer to miraculous feats by that name, even ones similar to what you hold in your hand right now.” He paused. “I myself, however, am not so inclined to believe in such things.”

The woman tossed her head back and cackled.

“Good! Good! Tall one, I like you! Short one - no, no not you. Too serious.” She scrunched her nose at Obi-wan, making a show of rooting through a particularly unruly burlap sack that was suddenly in her possession. “Perhaps you like this better? Only three hundred.” She pointed inside the half-open bag, which Obi-wan swore he heard _hiss_ in response. 

“The short one is curious as to what is in that seemingly sentient bag,” Obi-wan said, eyeing the sack warily.

Qui-gon only chuckled as he laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Peace, Obi-wan.” He ran his hand over a collection of trinkets on the ledge, picking up a small piece of curving metal on a strap of leather. It was a little snake pendant, silver with emerald eyes. 

"You want? Only two hundred. _Very_ powerful," the woman sang, stressing all the wrong syllables of her words, her sentences limping like a broken speeder. Obi-wan rolled his eyes as the she took Qui-gon's hand with own, curling his fingers around the small pendant, the burlap bag long forgotten. Why his Master was indulging this crazy old lady was beyond him. Another pathetic life form, it seemed.

At least this time Qui-gon did not go as far as to invite the woman back with them, politely declining her numerous demands to buy her wares, excusing himself on the fact that he only carried with him a map and a simple weapon. _That_ admission led to yet another ten minutes of discussion concerning the origins of his lightsaber - its construction, its power source - all topics which his Master dutifully avoided answering directly, implying instead that the simple silver hilt was more ceremonial than practical in nature; useful if one needed to bash someone over the head as a desperate measure, but not much else. 

Obi-wan wondered how many times his Master actually  _had_ used his weapon in such a fashion. Probably more than once.

All in all, it took over thirty minutes to convince the woman that immediate profit was not in her future - twenty-five minutes more than Obi-wan felt necessary in this situation. But his Master seemed to be enjoying the strange game transpiring between himself and the very odd woman, and short of physically dragging Qui-gon away, there was little Obi-wan could do except wait and observe. 

The woman gave one last brittle cackle at a particularly creative interpretation Qui-gon wove of their weapons' powers, rubbing her wizened hands together in glee before announcing that while she hadn't had this much entertainment in years, it was time for the two men to be on their way.

"Busy, very busy I am," she rasped, shooing the Jedi as one might an irritating fly.

Very busy, Obi-wan thought sardonically, taking in the empty cash box on the shelf. 

Still, he was relieved that the woman was finally mollified, and took the opportunity to slip his arm into Qui-gon's, steering him perhaps a bit too forcefully from the strange stall.

A trill ran up Obi-wan's spine as they walked away, something icy and foreign, and the young Jedi instinctually glanced back at the woman. All humor, any sense of play exhibited only moments ago was now completely absent from her demeanor. She fixed Obi-wan with a penetrating stare that was as disturbing as it was intense. 

"Did you feel that, Obi-wan?"

"Feel what, Master?" he answered, turning away from the dark corner.

"That woman - when she touched - " Qui-gon shook his head, tucking his hands into his cloak arms, his head bowed in thought as they continued to walk. "Nevermind. This planet is strange - an anomaly in the Force, something I haven’t…ah, _but here we are!_ ”

The sudden shift in Qui-gon’s mood left Obi-wan lurching, both mentally and physically, as his Master raced up to the nearest stall, this one run by a slightly more reputable-looking Trandoshan. The two exchanged a few gestures and after seemingly coming to an accord, Qui-gon reached into his cloak to produce a small, worn-looking flimsi, which he exchanged for a brown and red-colored plant.

“Please don’t tell me we came all the way here for a plant,” Obi-wan said as way of greeting when Qui-gon returned.

His Master at least had the grace to look lightly chastened, his eyebrows settling into an expression of put-upon confusion, even as he stared lovingly his new acquisition. “From a certain point of view, I suppose we did,” was Qui-gon’s cryptic answer.

 

* * *

 

Without any markets of strange arts or plants imbued with the Living Force to distract them, the trip back to the outskirts of the dockyards was uneventful, and Obi-wan took the welcomed respite to observe his surroundings.

This world was strange, as Qui-gon had said, a kind of nexus, a meeting point of all things, an intersection of energies. Obi-wan sensed the familiar pulse of the galaxy at large, the galaxy he knew, but it was all distorted, the way the atmosphere hung just a bit too low, the hazy scarlet clouds looming over them, almost sinister, inexorable in a way - like something one might find at the end of the universe. 

Multitudes of gravitational layers fought with each other for dominance, their presence so strong that it occasionally made Obi-wan lightheaded. It was an alien feeling, and the best way he could describe it was to frame it in terms of transmission interference, when multiple waves came crashing into each other, distorting holographic images, sometimes even combining them in bizarre ways like the time their communications console had shown the head of Yoda atop the body of Master Windu.

Obi-wan looked towards the sky. He could just see the outline of the black hole beyond the planet’s atmosphere, could feel the gravitational pull, that gateway to…well, he wasn’t really sure. All of his navigation instructors at the Temple had told him to stay clear of black holes, unless he harbored a secret desire to have every bit of matter that comprised his corporeal form crushed in an agonizing instant. There were ideas posited in certain circles, however, that perhaps that was not the entire truth of it, that something could lay beyond those vortices of death, that they could act as a pathway - 

“Padawan!” Qui-gon yelled.

Obi-wan snapped back to the present, his lightsaber already in his hands. He and Qui-gon were surrounded - two, four…eight men, all brandishing very large blasters, closing in towards the two Jedi in tandem. 

Without a word, Qui-gon and Obi-wan positioned themselves back-to-back, activating their lightsabers simultaneously.

Right. Observe. Deflect. React. Just like they had a hundred times previous. Adrenaline surged through Obi-wan, his heart racing as faster than a hummingbird as he repositioned his feet, coming to a ready position.

The men growled as they marched forward. Blonde-haired and bearded, their large muscles rippled under strange black armor and flowing red capes. 

Obi-wan was certain he had never encountered this particular crime syndicate before, knowing no galactic culture that dressed in this manner, that cultivated this particular burly image. Really, it was overkill, especially the cape.

The Jedi paused.

The cape. This image. _An_ image. One.

Huh.

Twin brothers running a criminal ring? That was certainly something Obi-wan could accept within the realm of possibility. Multiple similar-looking people in some form a scam? Less likely, but not out of the question.

But an identical octuplet ring?

He didn’t have the chance to contemplate the thought any further as the men let out a synchronized roar and charged forward.

A volley of blaster fire erupted from all sides, bolts screeching just past his ear. Both Jedi jumped, ducked, and twirled out of the way of the deadly barrage, using their lightsabers to attempt to deflect the energy bolts back at their enemy.

Obi-wan stared at his weapon, alarmed. 

“Master, the blaster fire isn’t rebounding!” he shouted, completing a neat pirouette as another round flew past him. “The lightsabers are just,” he panted in disbelief as his weapon consumed another bolt from the brawny blonde’s attack, “ _absorbing_ the energy!”

“Yes, I can see that, Padawan!” called Qui-gon over the din, raising his own weapon to catch an incoming attack from three of the large men. “Is your lightsaber affected?”

“No, Master!”

“Good! Keep alert, this enemy is not what it seems!”

Like he needed to be told twice, Obi-wan thought as he narrowly avoided a fist as large as his face. Force, what did they feed these men on their planet to be so _big_?

Over on the other side of the clearing, Qui-gon was holding his hands up, his mouth moving although Obi-wan could not hear the words and the young Jedi hoped that his Master wasn’t attempting to Force-suggest _eight men in the middle of a battle_ because, of course, that was exactly something his Master would try to do and -

A guttural roar erupted near him and Obi-wan spun to find himself nearly face-to-face with one of the attackers, who was now wielding his blaster in his hand like a giant hammer. The weapon came crashing down and Obi-wan had just enough time to swing his lightsaber around and cut through the thick handle of the weapon. 

Or, he would have cut through the thick handle of the weapon if the man had not suddenly dissipated into thin air.

"Qui-gon...?" he called, voice rising in disbelief.

“What is it Padawan, I’m rather busy over here!” his Master barked, now surrounded by four of the behemoths, his lightsaber drawn defensively in front of his body.

“It’s just that - “

“In a _minute_ , Obi-wan!” he shouted as he ducked and spun on his heel, his weapon cutting through eight legs almost at once.

Qui-gon stood, mouth gaping at the spot where the men had been just a moment ago. 

An exasperated sigh escaped Obi-wan before he could stop it. “ _That_ is what I was trying to tell you, Master!" he yelled, gesturing with one arm towards where the men had been standing with an annoyed motion. 

“Ah,” was his Master’s subdued response. 

A series of yells halted any further conversation, as the three remaining warriors charged at Obi-wan and Qui-gon, their weapons held high, faces the very picture of violent, blood-thirsty frenzy.

Qui-gon smiled. “Shall we?”

“After you, Master.”

The two disposed of the remaining specters in short fashion, Qui-gon stabbing his saber through one with a superfluous flourish, Obi-wan merely slashing his blade through the other's shoulder with a single swift, violent movement, an action which would have lost the blonde warrior his limb if he had been real.

Qui-gon shut down his lightsaber, reattaching it to his belt as he surveyed the now-desolate battlefield. 

"Well, that was…different."

Obi-wan frowned. “Master, what just happened? What were those things? And did you just try to _mind-influence eight combatants at once_?"

"To be fair Padawan, they weren't actually real and I - Obi-wan, what is it?"

The plant. The ridiculous red and gold plant that Qui-gon had bought for whatever Force-forsaken reason...it was - it was dancing.

Back and forth, the leaves gyrated in an invisible syncopation, shimmying in a way that reminded Obi-wan of a youngling trying to wriggle out of its winter clothing. A green mist began to encircle the undulating foliage, rising higher and higher until broad leaves expanded into pale hands, stalks to dark legs. Within seconds, the plant had vanished and in its place was a man with raven-black hair nearly as long as Qui-gon’s, dressed in an assortment of unfamiliar green and black leathers criss-crossing their way down a tall, almost too-thin frame.

Obi-wan stepped forward, his own lightsaber still illuminated, pointing it towards the being. 

“You are a Clawdite!”

The green-and-black creature frowned, giving a short, confused shake of his head.

“A changeling!” Obi-wan clarified.

At this, the man relaxed, raising both eyebrows in semi-approval, palms facing outwards in a gesture of what would have been almost self-conscious acceptance if not for the wicked grin on his face. 

“ _Changeling_ ,” he nearly sang, his voice suave and cultured. “Now that’s a term I haven’t heard for many, many years. I quite like it, I think. Far fewer negative connotations than shapeshifter.”

“Then you _are_ a Clawdite?” Qui-gon pressed.

The man let out a short, humorless laugh. “I suppose I have been called worse in my time.” He paused, inspecting his fingernails. “But no, I do not belong to this group you name.” 

The man spoke in a manner that Obi-wan would have assumed to be archaic Coruscanti, if not for his strange apearance and countenance. In fact, to say he "spoke" at all would be an understatement, almost an insult to the way he wove his words, at once drawling and insistent, lingering over every syllable, each vowel imbued with at least three different shades of meaning.

“What do you want of us, changeling?” Obi-wan asked, feeling that using the term "Clawdite" once more would be at his own peril, even if the creature was obviously a shapeshifter.

The man raised a single eyebrow in the younger Jedi’s direction, folding his fingers together in mock contemplation. His movements were smooth, almost too smooth, and Obi-wan was mesmerized by the man’s deadly grace.

“What do I want? A great many things, to be certain. Perhaps even a few you could be of use in finding.” And there was that grin again, this time less threatening than mischievous. “But really, you have been quite helpful in that regard already.”

“Speak true, changeling,” Qui-gon stepped forward, lightsaber in one hand at the ready.

At this the man cackled, throwing his head back, his long raven hair swinging wildly with the movement. He leveled his gaze at the two Jedi, amusement playing on his features.

“You truly do not know, do you? Oh, this _will_ be fun.”

The Force turned cold - a deep, almost familiar iciness. And then with a flash of green, the man disappeared. 

Neither Jedi moved, or even dared to breathe above a shallow inhalation. The light breeze, which had been carrying the noxious odor of sulfur and ash for the better part of the day, grew still. Five seconds, ten, thirty - they stood frozen, anticipation itching at the back of Obi-wan’s mind.

One minute passed, and nothing happened. 

Two minutes passed, and the breeze picked up again.

After three minutes, Obi-wan lowered his lightsaber, bringing his hand to his face to flick away a spider that had somehow found its way to his forehead. 

“Master, I - “

_CRACK!_

It was a paroxysm of green and metal, of screeching and the Force in utter _chaos._ Obi-wan was pushed to the ground, falling hard onto unyielding dirt and rock, the impact coinciding with a strangled yell not his own. The Jedi pushed himself up to his elbows, just in time to see a glint of silver in the sun, and all Obi-wan could do was watch in horror as the mysterious changeling took Qui-gon by the shoulders with a manic gleam in its eyes, pulling his Master close to whisper something in his ear before shoving a dagger deep into his abdomen.

Fear swallowed Obi-wan whole as his Master collapsed onto one knee, holding his side as precious red trickled over his fingers, dripping onto the sandy floor. The young Jedi howled, pulling his lightsaber into his hands, thinking of nothing but anger, of retribution and -

“Ow!”

Obi-wan spun in disbelief.

“Ow?” Obi-wan echoed, distress quickly turning to indignation.  “Really, Master? ‘Ow?’ This is how you react after _being stabbed?_ ” 

Qui-gon squeezed his eyes, gritting his teeth as he lilted slightly to the side. “Perhaps,” his Master wheezed.

A loud, exasperated sigh interrupted any further debate over the state of Qui-gon's imminent well-being. Obi-wan spun, ready to defend both himself and his Master in the event of a second attack, but the changeling made no move, having sheathed his dagger, his pale hands on his hips looking all too much like a scolding parent rather then a vicious enemy. 

He sneered in Obi-wan's direction. 

“Your guardian _will_ survive.” 

Obi-wan glared at the changeling, thrusting his lightsaber in his general direction. “No thanks to you stabbing him!”

A pained moan sounded from Qui-gon, as if to punctuate the accusation. 

The green-black man rolled his eyes, crossing his arms in irritation. “Oh please, stop whining, both of you!” he snapped. “I did far worse to my brother the other morning and he was well-enough recovered to irritate me with his boorish behavior by mid-meal.” The changeling inhaled sharply, looking almost surprised at his own outburst. 

“Now, with this all settled," he rasped, smoothing the sleeves of his leather outer-tunics one too many times as he stared at the ground. "I must be on my way.” And then the man straightened, any hint of vulnerability gone in an instant. He gave an imperious wave of his hand, bowing with utter insincerity towards both Obi-wan and Qui-gon, a now-familiar manic gleam shining in his eyes. “Thank you both ever so much for your… _enthusiastic_ cooperation _._ ”

Obi-wan jumped as the changeling disappeared in a flash of green.  It shouldn't have been possible, to just  _vanish_ like that. It was a complete usurpation of the laws of both science and the Force, and the Council would have a fit if they...but no, they would probably just have both his Master and himself sent to the mind-healers for a very extended, likely unpleasant visit. Obi-wan realized in that moment that none of this would ever come to light - that the impossible would stay so, locked away in memory only. But he knew better, knew that somehow in the space of less than ten minutes, what was once unimaginable had become…well, alarmingly real.

At least in so far as this planet was concerned. 

“He won’t be back,” a weary voice called from behind. 

Obi-wan shut down his saber and came to Qui-gon’s side, kneeling next to his Master, placing an arm around the man’s broad shoulders to steady him. 

“Oh really, Master. And what makes you say that?” 

Qui-gon glanced down at his abdomen, his hands still held tight to the wound. His fingers were stained rusty, but no longer slick with fresh blood. Obi-wan pretended to not notice the small tremor in Qui-gon's movements. 

“Oh, just a feeling,” his Master said easily. 

“A gut feeling, perhaps?” Obi-wan ventured, cocking his eyebrow ever so slightly at the mess of his Master’s tunics, relief flooding through his words.

Qui-gon fixed him with a stony look, which Obi-wan could only match with an impish grin. 

“I suppose I deserved that,” Qui-gon finally admitted after a beat.

“Which, my comments or the stabbing?”

“Hopefully only the first. Still,” his Master pressed at his skin gently, his eyebrows rising in surprise, “it could be worse.”

Obi-wan’s eyes went wide. “ _It could be worse_? He stabbed you!”

“That he did. And I must say it was artfully done. Avoided all major organs, and there was minimal bleeding considering everything. Plus,” the older Jedi lifted his tunics, exposing his bare midriff, “it seems as if the wound is healing itself already.”

Obi-wan leaned over to inspect his Master's stomach. The skin was still inflamed, and it was doubtless Qui-gon would be sporting a scar that would make Vokara Che’s _lekku_ stand on end, but beyond that there was no lasting physical damage that Obi-wan could see or even sense. 

“Self-healing?” Obi-wan asked as his Master re-arranged his shirt.

“No, Padawan. Not even the best healers in the Temple can mend a wound that deep so quickly.” 

Curious, Obi-wan thought.

“Still," Qui-gon grimaced as he got to his feet. "There is one problem."

_Oh, I have a bad feeling about this._

“Yes, Master?”

Qui-gon ran his thumb over his eyebrow, not quite meeting Obi-wan’s gaze. 

_A very bad feeling._

“Well, it seems that in all the, uh, tumult, I have…um, been relieved of my lightsaber.”

Obi-wan stared at his Master.

“You lost your lightsaber?”

“Temporarily misplaced it.”

“That weapon is your life, you know.”

“Very astute observation, student of mine.”

Obi-wan groaned. 

“We’re going to have to go back and find that shapeshifter, aren’t we?"

“Yes, it appears so.”

Obi-wan put his hands on his hips, staring at the desert floor. There were still drops of blood on the ground, red mixing with golden sand. Several nearby bushes were broken - trampled, really - by the scuffle with the eight not-men and the changeling. The young Jedi let out a heavy sigh, wondering if other apprenticeships were as strange as his. After reciting an abbreviated version of the Code under his breath, Obi-wan looked up and gestured towards the settlement.

“Lead the way, Master.”

 

* * *

 

They rushed back to the market, Obi-wan barely keeping pace with Qui-gon’s long strides. They passed the stall where Qui-gon had bought the strange red and gold not-plant - (Obi-wan swore from that point forward he would do his best to keep his Master from any more botanical shopping sprees on far-flung planets) - and the young Jedi narrowly avoided colliding with the red-silked reptile _again_ , this time receiving a particularly nasty  _hiss_ in response to his attempted apologies. Carefully tiptoeing around the very tall cold-blooded being, he set off sprinting, stopping just short of slamming into Qui-gon's back when his Master had paused, frozen - right in the middle of the square. Unperturbed by any onlookers (and really, with the motley assortment of beings and strange activities in this crowd, it was difficult to draw attention to one's self), Qui-gon closed his eyes and reached out his arm, searching for the essence of the kyber crystal that was housed inside his lightsaber with the Force. 

“Are you sure it’s here, Master?” Obi-wan asked. The man could be anywhere by now, even off-planet, and while the loss of Qui-gon’s weapon wouldn’t be catastrophic, per se, a weapon of that caliber in the hands of…well, whatever the changeling was (and neither Jedi had ruled out the possibility of the involvement of darker forces, although they had not voiced that concern)...it was better to be safe than sorry. And besides, Obi-wan knew the weapon had great sentimental value to his Master, who had built it during his own apprenticeship under Count Dooku.

Not to mention that the Council would probably skin Qui-gon's hide.

Again.

“It’s here, Padawan. But the confluence of energies on this planet - it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly where it might be.”

Obi-wan took a deep breath and followed Qui-gon’s lead, closing his eyes, clearing his mind and reaching out to the Force. Immediately, he was launched into the chaotic, strange whirlpool of energies and matter that swirled around Draxus T. Waves battered at the young Jedi, currents of power and gravity yanking him this way and that and he struggled to stay upright amidst the onslaught. Obi-wan had never felt, had never seen anything like this before - the winding ruby-dark river that overflowed its banks, the emerald fire that danced and burned bright, the strange silver fractal that was too large to be real, dripping with life, death, and knowledge. 

And yet, in the far corner, past the battles of water and fire, of ice and sun, there was a small glow. Obi-wan reached out to it, and in return was greeted as an old friend. 

“Master…”

“I sense it, too, Padawan,” Qui-gon replied, opening his eyes. “There,” he pointed.

Of course. Where else?

They strode over to the stall in the darkened corner of the market. Seated, with her legs perched on a small black ottoman, was the strange old woman.

“Back for a palm reading, boys?”

Qui-gon glowered.

“I will need my weapon back, Clawdite.”

A wide, feral grin spread over the woman’s face as green and gold shimmered down her body. A moment later, the dark-haired man appeared before them again, still dressed in his strange leathers, his long legs stretched out before him, the angle and tilt of his completely relaxed form almost mocking Obi-wan and Qui-gon in its total indolence.

He clapped slowly at the two Jedi. 

“ _Very_ good," he drawled, dragging his vowels out to an absurd length. "I’m almost impressed." 

Qui-gon’s expression hardened. “You will return my weapon now, and give yourself up for arrest.”

"Mmm," replied the changeling, folding his arms behind his head with theatrical nonchalance. Obi-wan half expected him pull out a drink with a small umbrella from his shelves, just for effect. "And what makes you believe that I have this weapon of yours?"

Qui-gon stepped forward, giving a subtle wave of his hand. His voice was imbued with suggestion. 

_“You will return my weapon now, and give yourself up for arrest.”_

The dark man stilled, his eyes going wide at Qui-gon’s attempted mind trick, green irises sparkling with something just short of wonder. He sat up straight in his chair, bringing his long legs down in an impossibly fluid motion, resting one hand to his chin. 

“Now _that_ …a compulsion spell! How wonderful!" he exclaimed, for once his expression seeming to reflect pure joy rather than veiled sarcasm. “But how…” the man let out a huff of frustration. “Oh, Hel take _Thor_ and those bloody celebrations. This would be _fun_ otherwise,” he muttered to himself, spitting the word “Thor” with an acerbity that was almost startling in its intensity. 

Obi-wan crossed his arms, keeping his eyes decidedly on the changeling and  _not_ his Master. He sent the slightest push of annoyance through the Force.

_/You overuse that, you know./_

Qui-gon stiffened. 

_/You have a better idea, Padawan?/_

The argument went unfinished as green eyes flitted back and forth from one man to the other, the changeling's gaunt features lined with interest in the invisible conversation. 

“Fascinating,” he hummed, his thick black eyebrows furrowing in contemplation.  “Your control of _seidr_ is far more advanced than any partial mage of Midgard,” he spoke to both of them. “Which, is not exactly high praise. You would require far more training to truly master the art, although I do applaud your efforts.”

Far more training to master the art? Obi-wan pulled at his robe sleeves. What was this creature, and how could he speak of things known only to the Jedi? Especially as only half the words the changeling uttered made any sense whatsoever, although the message of their supposed dearth of skill with the Force was certainly clear enough.

“And how would one such as yourself have knowledge of the Force without having stepped foot in the Jedi Temple?” asked Qui-gon.

“The Force?” the man smirked. “Is that what you call it here? What an absolutely horrific name.” 

“Then let us set semantics aside and deal with issues a bit more concrete,” Qui-gon said, opening his arms in the universal gesture of peace. “I have no desire to escalate this situation further, although I would like my weapon back, as it is of some nostalgic importance,” he hedged.

The dark man quirked an eyebrow, waving his hand to produce Qui-gon’s saber hilt out of thin air. Obi-wan gawked at the casual display of power. He was absolutely going to research _that_ particular skill in the Jedi Archives, assuming they ever made it back to Coruscant. 

“More than nostalgic, I think," the man purred, stroking the silver hilt. "No, I quite like this weapon. It truly is the most fascinating object I have discovered in this realm thus far.” He gave the two Jedi a calculating look. “Although now I might hazard that the both of you are quickly gaining my interest, as well.”

“A bargain, then.”

“A _bargain_ , you say?” The man’s eyes danced in sharp delight, his smile hungry, teeth practically daggers in his mouth. “Well, those happen to be my specialty. What would you offer in return for this object?”

Qui-gon brought his hand to his beard, stroking it in contemplation. _Stall,_ was the gesture's message, Obi-wan realizing that Qui-gon had reverted to their long-ago secret language of movements, something they had created together when Obi-wan was younger, before he and his Master could communicate freely through the Force. It was a good idea, not knowing the full extent of the powers the changeling was able to wield. 

Obi-wan thought furiously. They had nothing to bargain with, and no leverage in this situation. The Council would not allow Qui-gon to use Republic-allocated funds to buy their way out of trouble, mind tricks did not work on the man, and the threat of violence - aside from being strictly against the Jedi Code - did not seem to be a wise choice given that they had no idea what they were truly dealing with.

None of it made any sense, why was this man still here? Why not run, or attack - why stay and taunt, why try to bargain when you held all the informa - 

Oh.

_Oh._

Obi-wan hid a smile behind his hand, scratching the nape of his neck with the other.

_Follow my lead, Master._

His Master acknowledged the message with a sniff.

Obi-wan crossed his arms in front of him, adopting the changeling's haughty bearing in challenge. 

He wasn't the only one who could turn a smile to knives.

“Why return here, changeling? Why not just run away when you had the chance?” Obi-wan asked, mimicking the changeling's lazy cadence.

Green and black shoulders shrugged. “Why do anything?" he laughed, his own private joke fueling his amusement. “Anyone would tell you it’s because I feel like it.” He tossed the saber hilt in the air, catching it one swift movement.

“No, I don’t think so.” And there it was. A subtle but noticeable tensing of the man’s shoulders, the smallest hiccup in his languid grace. 

“Oh? Do illuminate me, I _so_ love stories,” he replied, his voice dark and sultry. The man leaned over the rickety counter, bringing all attention to his considerable height, which Obi-wan only now realized rivaled Qui-gon’s. There was something about him - something otherworldly, full of power and potential that fascinated Obi-wan as it touched the Force in a way that was so different from his own, something deep and ancient that in any other circumstance he would want to explore, to get to know. 

He would shelve those thoughts for now, however. They had a mission - an objective - and Obi-wan hadn’t earned a reputation for negotiation and perhaps a bit of slippery charm amongst his classmates for no reason.

The young Jedi smiled politely. “I’m afraid this is not such an interesting tale, at least from my perspective. But I would wager that you, changeling, are lost.”

The dark-haired man’s grin faltered, his eyes turning cold. He growled, and Qui-gon’s saber shuddered in his grip. 

“Insolent boy, I am not lost!”

But Obi-wan was placid as the Room of a Thousand Fountains, as composed as Master Windu. “I think not, changeling. You tried to sell us wares earlier, finding out exactly what kind of currency - or lack thereof - we carry. Which amounts to our weapons and a map, which Master Jinn stated. You then attacked us - which by the way, an attack on two Jedi, no matter how secluded a place in the galaxy it takes place, is a _highly_ punishable offense under Republic law.”

The man only snorted in response.

“But you don’t care about that," Obi-wan continued, confirming what the man's reaction had communicated. "What you _do_ care about is finding your way back to…wherever it is you come from. And that place cannot be close considering your language and clothing is from a world no Jedi has written about." Obi-wan paused, running a hand over the dusty counter of the stall, idly inspecting his dirtied fingers before shaking them clean. "You _could_ have attempted to trade for a map from anyone here, but decided to pursue us after our initial meeting. Probably having something to do with the Force or the _saidman_ \- “

_“Seidr,_ ” the man interrupted, looking annoyed at the deliberate mispronunciation. 

“The _seidr_ you mentioned. The only way of luring us back for information would be to steal something you know we valued, something we would pursue quickly as you probably have to return to your home sooner rather than later.”

Obi-wan paused to let his statement settle.

The changeling huffed, rolling his shoulders, allowing the mask of aggressive indifference to settle back over his features.

“As you have said, I, as many others of this place, am here to collect information.” He fixed Obi-wan with a wicked stare. “Perhaps I am only here to acquire some of this fine weaponry.” 

He opened his palm, levitating the lightsaber hilt just above his hand.

The raven-haired man smirked. “Or perhaps…I was just _bored_ ,” he drawled, perching himself on top of a wooden table, legs swinging back and forth as he kept the lightsaber afloat.

Qui-gon stepped forward, reaching into his robes. “I suppose you would have no need of this, then.”

His Master floated a small silver ball above his palm, mirroring the action of the green-and-black clad not-Jedi. Emerald eyes narrowed in suspicion, taking in the floating object. Qui-gon nudged a small, red button with the Force, causing the orb to send a projection into the air, revealing a holomap of their current place in the galaxy.

The man’s eyes flashed with interest. “You have my attention, half-mage.”

He stood, once again graceful, making nearly no sound, and Obi-wan considered whether or not the man considered himself a whole mage, if he and Qui-gon were only half-mages, and if that was his world’s term for Force-users. The man’s features lost their menace as he studied the map, the hard lines softening into almost child-like wonder. It was a look familiar to Obi-wan, one he had seen on the most devoted scholars in the Jedi Archives, and he wondered just what it was that caused this changeling to wear such a vicious facade. 

“World tree…Yggdrasil…yes, of course. That would fit the description from the Alfheim records,” he mumbled. “But then how…” he pointed a long finger at the prominent black hole that loomed far too close to Draxus T.

“Ah. Of course, it’s in-between. Considering everything, I suppose the outcome could have been far worse,” he concluded, adding, “ _Thor,_ ” as a venomous afterthought.

Obi-wan was beginning to wonder if “Thor” was a curse in the man’s native language.

“Half-mages, I do believe we can come to an agreement." The changeling muttered something unintelligible, a guttural language quite unlike any Obi-wan had ever heard. Green mist rose from his hands as he enshrouded Qui-gon’s saber in unnatural light. 

Qui-gon stiffened. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded.

The man didn’t answer, passing one hand over each side of the saber, which glowed in response to his words. The light grew brighter, incandescent, before settling into a dim pulse and fading away.

Obi-wan’s eyes went wide. In the man’s other hand was an exact copy of Qui-gon’s lightsaber.

"Your weapon for this map," he stated simply.

Very few times had Obi-wan ever seen his Master at a loss for words, but this - the ability to create something from nothing, to take the Force and create from nothingness, from raw energy - that was something only whispered about in the hallways after class, abilities that were mere rumors.

“Do you not have these abilities, half-mages?" he asked, reacting to shocked faces of the two Jedi. "Surely such a child’s spell should be taught to your _seidr_ apprentices at a young age,” the raven-haired man said. 

“Generally speaking, such acts are a desecration of the Force, and practiced only by those with the darkest intentions,” answered Qui-gon gravely. 

_/Dark side, Master?/_ Obi-wan sent. 

_/No. I don’t think so. But be cautious./_

“Interesting,” the man - the mage - commented. “And a waste, if I am to be completely honest. But I believe you misapprehend my actions and time is, as your young companion so astutely mentioned, of the essence. Both of these weapons are real, and I will gladly hand one over in exchange for that trinket you hold. In the interest of research, however…” He floated both sabers in the air, exchanging their places, hiding one, then the other, again and again in a blur of silver, green and gold until it was unclear to Obi-wan which was the original. 

The man grinned. “You must choose. And that choice _will_ be binding, I assure you.”

Obi-wan exchanged looks with Qui-gon. The man didn’t feel like the dark side, didn’t pollute the Force, insidious, like thick oil smothering water. But he was no Jedi, either, devoid of the bright, steady calm that Obi-wan had come to associate with his Order. No, this man was something else entirely, bowing to neither dark nor light.

“I do not remember agreeing to these terms,” Qui-gon said. 

“And yet here you are, your arm already outstretched,” chuckled the mage, holding out both hands, both sabers. "You win either way, half-mage. As I have said, I learned this spell as a mere child, and have had ample time to perfect its casting. You will not go home weaponless, I promise you." 

There was a catch in those words, some trap door that itched at Obi-wan's instincts, but he just couldn't quite puzzle it out. He regarded the two floating sabers. Both weapons looked the same,  _felt_ the same - down to the very molecules. It was strange, that he couldn’t quite make out the signature of Qui-gon’s kyber crystal, which had become almost as familiar to Obi-wan as his own. Still, between the planet’s bizarre energy fields and the mage’s own surrounding chaotic storm, it was little wonder that certain elements of the Force were nullified.

It was not a comforting thought in their current situation. 

Qui-gon nodded in the direction of the mage’s left hand.  The changeling raised his eyebrows, bringing the weapon close to his face for further inspection.

“Interesting. Well done, half-mage.”

Without preamble, the two men exchanged objects, saber for silver orb. The man tossed the projector ball in the air and caught it with his hand.

“Mmm, very good,” he muttered to himself, before turning to the Jedi again, something approximating true happiness lightening his face, nefarious intent falling way to a more natural boyish charm, if only for a brief moment. “Well, I must thank you, gentlemen. This has proven to be a rewarding diversion.”

Qui-gon laughed. “I cannot say the same is true for us. But, thank you for upholding your part of the bargain." His Master paused. "Even if you did stab me."

The man made a small sound of amusement in response. “Let the halls of the Royal Palace know that the so-called Liesmith has kept his word!” he shouted at the sky. “Within reason, of course,” he whispered conspiratorially to Qui-gon, who turned a shade ill at the statement.

The changeling vanished, re-emerging seconds later directly behind Qui-gon.

“And half-mage?" he murmured into Qui-gon's ear, a bit too close, a bit too... _too_ for Obi-wan's comfort. 

"Do keep better track of your weapon. From what I could sense from your crystal, it _is_ your life."

And then he was gone - for good - this time without any flourish, the only indication of his absence a strange emptiness in the Force.

Both Jedi stood motionless, staring at the spot where the man had been seconds ago. Obi-wan struggled to comprehend to come to terms with the events of the last few minutes, not to mention the entire _kriffing_ day.

He was going to need a strong drink when they got back to Coruscant. Possibly two.

Qui-gon heaved a large sigh.

“Padawan?”

“Yes, Master?”

“How would you feel about making a stop on Ilum before we return to Coruscant?”

“Master, he _didn’t…_ ”

“Just for…research purposes.”

  

* * *

 

Later, at the docking bay, a holobroadcast reported Republic authorities in pursuit of a stolen ship somewhere near The Redoubt. Qui-gon buried a smile behind the sleeve of his robes, muttering something about "not promising to make it easy on him." The older Jedi Master reached into his cloak, producing a familiar small, metal snake pendant and a golden orb.

Obi-wan watched, slack-jawed as his Master placed the items on the steering console of their ship. 

“For research, Master?”

Qui-gon smiled. “Of course, my Padawan.” 

 

* * *

 

Years later, it would occur to Obi-wan that his Master’s preoccupation with the Living Force only intensified after the incident, his meditation deepening, connecting to more arcane aspects of Force-study that even Masters Yoda and Windu tended to avoid.

Obi-wan also recalled a certain red and gold plant making an appearance in Qui-gon’s vast collection at some point. They learned later that this plant grew a very peculiar breed of apples not native to any known system.

Curious, was all it was.

Very, very curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confused about certain things? Read on in Chapter 2 for Loki's POV and some of your questions may be answered. 
> 
> Or not.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! @legobiwan (Star Wars/Obi-wan Kenobi) || @be-a-snake-stab-your-brother (MCU/Loki)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally planning on having a second POV here but I realized that for this "plot" to make any sense, we really needed to see things from Loki's perspective. 
> 
> Not going to lie, this was _fun_ and I banged out the first draft of this in like, 2 hours because it just flowed. 
> 
> Re: wormholes/portals/the Void - for the purposes of this story, I am assuming that most portals work kind of like "The Devil's Anus," which took our Revengers safely from Sakaar to Asgard, and that they have varying levels of danger/power (like the Bifrost). I am also assuming that Loki fell through the Void (not a portal) for quite some time before landing on Sanctuary and meeting the evil grape. I am purposefully being a bit hand-wavy about this mechanism. Just roll with it :)
> 
> Loki is young in this story and hasn't had his identity crisis yet - mostly he is just the God of Mischief with some references to the trouble he got into in the real Norse myths. He can also be a _very_ unreliable narrator at times. :)

**_ Asgard _ **

**_ The Eternal(ly Boring) Realm _ **

**_ Átjándi Mánadagr, Sólmánuður _ **

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I suppose I  _should_  thank Thor for his idiotic bumbling.

But one can only thank someone if there is intent on their part, and Thor has always been an oblivious thunderous oaf, swinging his hammer this way and that, altogether unaware of the wreckage he leaves behind on his singular path to glorious victory.

Of course, there is always someone who has to clean up afterwards.

And we both know who that is, don’t we?

Still, I suppose that falling through an unforeseen interdimensional portal after one’s brother challenged three dwarves to a drinking contest is not the  _worst_  thing that could happen. Leave it to Thor to take control of his skiff after Norns-only-know how many meads, announce to all his sycophantic friends that he is the superior pilot, and then crash his vessel directly into mine.

Of course, no one else had been riding with  _me_  at the time _. (_ The one who is clearly the better pilot.)

Oh, and I can hear them now - “Loki, what of your supposed flying skills?” “Loki, how did you you lose control of your ship?” “Loki, why weren’t you looking after your brother?”

Or my personal favorite, “Loki, what were you up to?”

Just because of one little recent incident with Iðunn’s apples…

But I digress, and diary, you perhaps know better than I the long history of my brother and myself. I will not bore you with recounting the most recent series of sleights I endured against my person upon returning to Asgard.

Not when the outcome of my little adventure was so positively  _delicious._

I cannot recount my trip through the interdimensional passageway to you, although I believe it to be relatively brief. Normally, traveling via portal is a wholly ordinary feat (at least when one is a natural planeswalker. Everyone always remembers Loki Liesmith, but when do they recall that I am also known as Loki Sky Walker?) However, it  _can_  be rather unpleasant when one is caught unprepared, but I suppose the Norns were smiling on me that day. (Truly, the danger of traveling via portal is about equivalent to that of the Bifrost - nothing terrible will happen unless you encounter an enemy mid-route or do something so horrifically stupid that you most likely don't deserve to live (Do not take that as a challenge, Thor!) I shudder to think what would have happened had I fallen between Yggdrasil's branches, in that space known only as the Void. But let us not think of such dire things, dear diary, and return to the tale at hand.) 

Upon waking, I found myself on a singularly alien world, one whose energies were unlike any other I had ever encountered. In my confusion, I am embarrassed to admit that my first instinct was to attempt to call upon Heimdall to open the Bifrost. He did not answer, which leaves me to conclude that he either heard my pleas and ignored them, or that I was in a dimension so far to be out of even the great Gatekeeper’s sight. You can imagine which of these I hold to be the truth. Luckily, no other being was present to witness me yelling at the sky like a lunatic, and I fear I must confront Odin about the rather loud manner by which we summon our beloved Gatekeeper, as it does cause such a ruckus. (Perhaps his hearing is being sacrificed to his sight. It certainly would explain his behavior towards  _me._ )

Diary, you alone must realize the gravity of this scenario, as I have spent decades traveling the Nine Realms and beyond with little issue. But there are more things between Asgard and the rest than we have knowledge of, and I was left with the singular predicament of landing on an heretofore unknown realm, with no map, no transportation, and seemingly no access to the Bifrost.

I was, to use a Midgardian turn of phrase, well and truly fucked.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The planet I arrived on was a desolate wasteland - hot, dry and cavernous, and for an alarming moment, I had thought myself transported to the edges of Muspelheim, to come face-to-face with Surtur himself (oh, how I despise that prophecy!) That fear, however, was unwarranted as closer inspection of the morning sky revealed a strange dark vortex near what I assumed was the celestial equator of this world. Knowing Muspelheim boasts no such features (and may my knowledge extend to theory only), I allowed myself to relax and set forth down a dusty pathway towards what seemed to be some form of population center.

Oh diary, I must say that what greeted me was most wondrous and fantastic, as species not even catalogued in the vast encyclopedias of Vanaheim roamed a small, dilapidated marketplace, one that seemed dedicated to selling items of the decidedly occult. In lieu of physical descriptions, please find detailed sketches after this entry. I was most taken by the large, ambulatory reptile dressed in a series of fine, red silk wrappings. We exchanged pleasantries, which confirmed that the Allspeak was able to function in this series of realms, and I learned from them that the planet I had arrived on was named Draxus T.

Not wanting to bring attention to myself as an outsider, I did not press for more information, but allowed my conversation partner to be on their way, all the while shadowing their movements for further information. This, of course, was how I learned of the nature of the marketplace and the planet I had landed on, which seemed to serve as a kind of refuge for those interested in, or gifted with some level of  _seidr._

I will admit, diary, that it disappointed me to learn that as far as I had come, as far as I was from Asgard, that even then the practice of magical arts seemed to be shunned to a backworld such as this. It is one thing to endure the taunts of  _ergi_  on Asgard, to be called womanly and coward due to my mastery and use of  _seidr_ , but to be greeted with a similar scenario dimensions away?

My heart perhaps hardened again in that moment. I can only say that future events in this adventure did much to lighten my mood.

But for the time being, my morale was low, and so I settled on a straightforward course of action that would involve minimal chaos and only the slight possibility of highly justifiable bodily harm to others. I would gather what information I needed and be on my way. Or, that was my plan when my  _seidr_  sensed something altogether unusual. 

Across the plaza stood two men dressed as monks in long brown robes and tan tunics. Their appearance was altogether unexceptional (dare I even say rather unfashionable), excepting the silver cylinders hanging from their hips, which glinted in the sunlight and drew me as a piece of jewelry might a magpie. Wanting to get a closer look, I transformed myself into a wholly unremarkable passerby, copying the violet robes of some amorphous beings I had encountered earlier. I  pretended to shop for wares from a decidedly third-rate witch at a nearby stall (I can barely even use the word in reference to her, so singularly trite were her trinkets), where I gathered snippets of the monks' conversation.

They had been sent on a diplomatic mission to investigate something called "Force suppression" on a planetary system named Csilla, apparently home to a race of beings bearing a striking resemblance to those monstrous denizens of Jötunheimr (and I will admit, diary, that the thought of the Jötnar extending their filthy reach that far into the universe without Asgard’s knowledge was, for a moment, paralyzing). Their envoy, however, proved to be unsuccessful, and the monks were due back to their sanctuary anon, but the taller and older of the two decided to stop on this planet as a small detour. The shorter man seemed less than pleased by this development, leading me to believe that they were working outside of their initial orders. I also learned that this realm was nearly as unfamiliar to the rest of their galaxy as it was to me.

From what little else I could glean, these men belonged to a warrior-monk society based on a highly formal apprenticeship system. That in and of itself was not so interesting, as such things are common in the Nine Realms, and I was ready to divert my attention when the older of the two men floated an object with telekinesis, looking neither ashamed nor alarmed at the action.

_Seidr_  practitioners? Could it be possible there was an entire class of sorcerers I was unaware of?

I calmed my racing heart, allowing my invisible sense to prod at the two men. I don’t have to tell you diary, that  _seidr -_ magic - is merely a manipulation of the world around us, the ability to weave stories so strong that they become truth, that they are able to bend light and energy to their teller’s will. Each syllable, each phoneme, whether spoken or unspoken, carries with it a certain field, an individual signature of elements that interacts with all other living things. Together, they braid sentences in the air, symphonies in the water, discord in fire. It is something innate to all living things, but to truly be able to harness this power and learn its millions of tongues and moods - to bargain with it, to flirt with it, and, at times subjugate it - it is rare, indeed. To use this power so casually even more so, and careful exploration of both the old and young man confirmed my suspicions that they at least were partially trained in magic, albeit in a very different fashion than my own.

If that weren’t enough, the silver cylinders at the men’s hips caught the attention of my inner senses. Housed within each item seemed to be some sort of energy source, one highly similar to the crystals I have kept this very room. This source, however, was not something one would buy at a market in Alfheim or bargain for with the dark elves of Svartalfheim (a hard-fought victory, if you remember). No, this source was raw, attuned to its owners similar to the way Mjölnir is to Thor. (Although without the enchantments dear Father laid on the weapon after  _I_ so generously brought it back - with many others - to Asgard. But diary, let us not think on that dark chapter of our past, nor the consequences of my intended generosity. Our lips must stay sealed on that account.)

It was essential to learn more from these two, to ascertain the extent of their magical abilities, to learn of their organization, and - most importantly - place myself in a position whereby I could easily acquire one of their silver cylinders for further inspection.

Diary - do not react so. I say this all for the greater good of Asgard, and more specifically, to further her magical knowledge, which would have laid stagnant for the past thousand years if not for me.

And besides, the Eternal Realm has never known a better diplomat than Loki Silvertongue, has it not?

With these aims in mind (and admittedly, the more pressing matter of returning to Asgard in a prompt manner forgotten), I took the form of the old witch whose pathetic trinkets I had prodded at a few minutes previous, transporting her stall across the underdeveloped market square to a dark, mostly forgotten corner where I hoped to hold a more private conversation with the two partial mages.

Once ready, I sent a simple homing spell in their direction, and was delighted to see them both react to my manipulations. Almost immediately, the older, tall man headed in my direction as the younger, shorter one stayed his ground for a few moments longer, looking particularly unhappy.

What fun it was to speak with these two! To tease, to prod, to subtly hint at greater aims. The tall one played the game well, pretending to know nothing of magic, to the point where he feigned disbelief in it at all. The small one - the student, I assumed, although his countenance was years beyond his appearance - was far less engaging, keeping himself at a distance even as he made sardonic remarks about the contents of my precious burlap sack.

Of the two, he was most assuredly the one I needed to keep an eye on.

The tall one finally let his guard down enough for me to gain two vitally important pieces of information. One, in the tradition of monks everywhere, it seemed, they carried no real currency, only bringing with them their weapons and a map. Two, I was able to initiate brief skin-to-skin contact with the tall one, whereby I could gain a fleeting insight into his nature. (I achieved this by means of a little snake charm which has recently gone missing. Odd, as I am not in the habit of misplacing my belongings).

With this information I was able to formulate a plan. I did have actual need of their map if I had any desire to find my way off-planet (my actual desire to return swiftly perhaps less than the threat of reprisal from Odin lest I be absent too long). And while I  _could_  just claim the information from any of the other beings present, it would come without the second reward of knowing exactly how those silver cylinders - which I was relatively certain were the aforementioned weapons - worked. Regrettably, I wasn’t able to learn else much from my brief psychic link with the older man, whether due to his own power or strange training I cannot say. Still, it was enough to inform me that these men were drawing on the same  _seidr_  source as myself, albeit under far more constrictive rules. I also learned, strangely enough, that the tall man desired a certain botanical item - a plant, in simpler language - and in those few short seconds I had a relatively accurate mental picture of his goal.

Well, diary, dare you guess what I did next? You may sigh and tell me I should cease these childish pranks, but one occasionally needs a reminder of what it truly means to be the God of Mischief, and it has been so dreadfully dull around here since the apple incident.

(And besides, Thor is no fun anymore, having actually learned his lesson after the fiftieth time. Now he approaches all his favorite animals and sentient items with a large degree of caution, picking them up with the handle of his hammer, or worse, having a servant do it for him.  Ah, to be young again. I will never forget the look in his eyes after transforming back from that snake form.)

Diary, I must say this was one of my better efforts. In order to learn the true nature of the monks’ weapons, I set upon them eight simulacrums of Thor at his most beastly - set afire with the beserker rage with no hammer, but a large plasma blaster weapon in hand. Not only did this serve to illuminate me as to how these silver cylinders worked, but the image of Thor was to be a proverbial - what was the phrase? - canary in a cave mine. (Those Midgardians. So droll.) If, by chance, the two partial mages recognized my brother’s boisterous image, I would know enough to change my plans and flee from their presence, as the only news that travels as quickly as my brother’s heroics is the news of my own supposed misdeeds.

I was not disappointed by the monks’ efforts, as they immediately drew their silver cylinders to defend themselves. As it turned out, the cylinders were merely the handle of the weapon, the blade being some form of contained plasma in blue or green color. While a practical demonstration on an array of different materials would have been more to my liking, the short showcase I received was more than enough to conclude that these were very powerful weapons indeed, and that I should quite like to investigate one further.

The monks, to their credit, disposed of my illusions quickly (a little too quickly for my tastes, if for no other reason than my amusement at seeing Thor manhandled in this state. Diary, I do beg that you not reveal this to my brother. Oaf he may be, but I fear my use of his visage in such a manner would cause a most painful hurt on his heart. I admit, only to you, that I have not yet been able to fully divest myself of sentiment towards him.)

Where was I? Oh yes, my crowning moment. After the monks had dispensed with the enemy, I decided to reveal myself to them, transforming my body most elegantly from that of a red and gold plant to myself. An instant later, my dagger was deep in the abdomen of the tall man, and his weapon safe in my own hand.

Oh, diary! What fun it was to see someone fall for that old trick! And never you worry - a simple spell whispered in the man’s ear negated any true peril. A bit of blood, a little pain - neither of those ever truly hurt anyone.

My objective was achieved, although I lingered a moment to abate the young man’s fears that his guardian was in any true mortal peril. Wholly unnecessary, really, as his mentor was able to assure him of his own well-being moments later, but Loki is not the uncaring fiend that the stories would make him out to be.

Thusly satisfied that no harm would come to either, and now in possession of the great weapon, I took my leave of the two men, teleporting back to the stall of the old woman in the market.

But Loki, you may ask, why did you not leave right away?

Ah, but diary, you forget, I still held no map and I had now assured that the two monks would attempt to hunt me down, seeing as I left them no dearth of clues as to how to find me and, of course, the minor issue of the stabbing. (It really does  tend to put a bad taste in people’s mouths, no matter their religious affiliations.) Surely they would return for some form of explanation, if not vengeance.

Figuring I had a good ten minutes before our next confrontation, I immediately set to finding out how this weapon functioned. The mechanism was easy enough, although I made certain to give myself and the plasma blade plenty of room, lest I lose a hand or other integral body part. Weaponized plasma is not unknown on Asgard, as even the skiff that I was so rudely dropped from to begin this whole adventure was equipped with plasma guns, and I am all too familiar with the vast array of gruesome injuries they are able to inflict.

And wasn't that quite the revelation. Asgard has had these weapons for years, yet no one had even thought to take that technology a step further. (Not even myself, I am ashamed to say.) Unlike a regular broadsword or spear, this weapon was light, accurate, and deadly, much like my own daggers and I immediately felt at ease with its use. Of course, no true Asgardian would be caught wielding such a thing - a weapon of such minimal heft, feminine, and full of  _magic_  - but perhaps the those of Vanaheim or Alfheim might find a use of it?

But no, worry not, dear diary, I have no intention in entering the weapons market business. As deep as my grievances run against Asgard, I would not willingly arm her enemies against her.

Back to the weapon - the plasma technology could be copied easily, but the crystal... Now there was the thing, diary - as you see, this crystal resonated not only with its owner, but the entire environment around it, drawing its energy from life itself, an elemental magic so strong that I began to wonder if it was sentient. Questions sprang to mind faster than I could work through them. If taken back to the Nine Realms, how would the crystal react? Would it fight me, as its new owner? What stresses could it be subjected to, before it broke? (Oh Loki, you might ask, why must you try and break everything? To which I always answer, dear Mother, how else would I learn?)

I had but a few moments left, already sensing the two half mages approach, and had to come to a decision as to what to do with the weapon. Return it? Abscond with it? Those seemed to be the only two options until a third unfolded itself in my mind, like a beautiful flower blooming in the Asgardian springtime (or perhaps more like an uncoiling snake, readying itself for attack - I do so love those creatures, I must admit). There is always a another option, if one is patient enough to wait for it. (If you have taught me nothing else, it is this lesson.) I hastily disassembled the weapon, extracting the crystal and hiding it in my newly-formed interdimensional pocket. (A handy spell that I think I will improve upon in the future.)

As I had hoped, the signature of the crystal was still present in the now-empty weapon, and I used my manipulations to amplify its powers within the molecular structure of the hilt. A neat little obstruction charm hid the silver cylinder from plain sight, just as the two men approached what was now the same elderly witch as before. (Yes, diary, that would be me.)

There was no preamble as the taller of the two men immediately demanded that I return his what was his. Pleased to meet two beings with actual intellect, I relented easily, transforming back into my natural form. My shapeshifting did not phase the two men this time, although they still insisted on calling me “clawdite” over and over. I imagine it must be some kind of slur, as shapeshifting seems to be a sinister skill, no matter which universe you are in. Still, they made no larger scene about my abilities, the small one even using the term  _changeling_  in lieu of the other, seemingly based on my familiarity and preference.

Did I not tell you he was the one to keep an eye on, diary?

Well, within minutes he had laid out my own plan before me, guessing at the fact that I was, indeed lost and in dire need of directions. All this I denied vehemently, of course, but the tall one caught on easily and illuminated his map in front of me so I might see the object I wished to possess.

Diary, I must tell you that in that moment I considered a fair trade, I really did. The map was like none I had encountered before, illuminating not only worlds, but entire systems beyond the knowledge of the Nine Realms. I had fallen through a dimensional portal to an altogether separate galaxy, perhaps even a separate time - an entirely different existence than the one I had always known, a place where Loki was just...Loki, and nothing else. The strange vortex I had spotted in the morning was also present on the map, and after a few moments contemplation it became clear that it was also the path out. If all was as I thought, I would be able to fly myself back to Asgard in no time.

Surprisingly, the half-mages seemed altogether ignorant about interdimensional travel, only observing me with confusion and a bit of trepidation as I pointed towards the portal.

Good. Asgard has enough enemies within the Nine, and there is no need to court more from outside our own realms. This secret I shall keep to myself (and you, dear diary. Should the day come when you are forced to unravel your enigmas…well, I will no longer be planeswalking then, the moniker of Sky Walker being of no use in the beyond).

Enough maudlin talk. The hour grows late and I fear Thor will be banging on my door at any moment, ready to regale me with his daring adventures in my brief absence.

But once again I have lost the thread of my tale! Suffice it to say that I presented to the two half-mages (and half-mages they were to be certain. Able to perform telekinesis and simple locator and compulsions spells, with a bit more training they would have been a respectable enemy for any Vanir mage) - I presented to them two identical weapons, one a solid simulacrum (some of my best work to this date!), the other the real object. My bargain was simple. The older man would choose whichever weapon he thought to be true and in return, I would receive my map.

Of course, I didn’t mention the crystal powering his weapon was long gone.

The man chose the correct weapon, that is to say, the one that at one point  _had_  housed the crystal currently in my possession. The transaction was surprisingly smooth, even as the man took his cylinder with a long look of  _knowing_. I wonder, dear diary, if he suspected my treachery all along, and if so, where the repository of extra crystals might be located. For they must be somewhat common if he were willing to part with one so easily, do you not think?

The rest of my story is of little interest. I borrowed a ship, was given chase by the authorities for a few exhilarating moments, and then flew my way through the portal and back to the Nine Realms (better pilot,  _my far better-looking posterior_ , Thor. My brother would still be stuck halfway between dimensions if it were left to him.)

I do wonder as to the location of my snake pendant, as well as the golden orb that I had liberated from Vanaheim at an earlier time. While I am familiar with their secrets, they do possess a fair amount of esoteric knowledge of the more mystical side of  _seidr-_ working, and I had been planning on returning them to their rightful owners...

...at some point.

Ah, there’s the knocking (knocking? More like hideous banging.) I must be on my way before I lose  _another_  door to my brother’s enthusiasm.

Oh, but you had a question, dear diary?

Well, the crystal remains in my possession, and I have been studying it intently for the past few days. Aside from advanced weaponry, it has provided some insight into channeling certain forms of magic which I will write to you more about, diary, when I have the time. Beyond that, however, I fear that some my assumptions were proven correct about its powers in another dimension, but the crystal has piqued my interest in researching an old story about the so-called infinity stones, which Odin has never relented to tell me. 

Plus, it makes such pleasant music.

Oh, one second, Thor!

I must really go now.

…

…

I wonder if that plant is the one I’m thinking of?

Diary, do half-apples make for good gifts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many little things in here that make me sad! His diary is addressed to his mother, to only be opened after his death! (oh no!) His grudging love of Thor. Odin's shitty parenting. Way too much foreshadowing of the movies. Guys, have I mentioned that I love my Jotun/Asgardian mage? Because I do. 
> 
> Also, re: the apples. My thought here was that the plant grew magic (not immortal) apples. (Which is why Loki says "half.") Maybe Loki nicked them from a different part of Iðunn's garden (the non-immortal part). So they're not enough to make anyone live forever, but perhaps enough to spur on some further investigation into Force immortality from our dear Qui-gon. You know, for research purposes...
> 
> Guys, this is seriously the weirdest thing I have ever written (so far).
> 
> If you want the corny epilogue, read on to chapter 3...
> 
> My Tumblrs: @legobiwan (Star Wars/Obi-wan Kenobi) || @ be-a-snake-stab-your-brother (MCU/Loki) || Come say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

“And that, Anakin, is how Qui-gon lost, and eventually regained, his lightsaber.”

“Master, that’s a ridiculous story,” Anakin yawned, the previous days’ battles finally catching up to him.

Obi-wan smiled. “I suppose,” he answered quietly, as his former student stretched his limbs in all directions, barely holding back a second yawn.

“Anyway, Master don’t think this gets you off the hook for earlier. When we're old and boring on the Council, I’ll make up an even crazier story how you lost your lightsaber - to…to a talking, small tree!”

“That sounds wonderful, Anakin,” Obi-wan chuckled. “I look forward to it.”

Anakin stood, lilting slightly to the side from fatigue, his hand absentmindedly running up and down the back of his head.

“Ready, ‘Soka?”

The Togruta nodded sleepily in reply.

“G’night, Obi-wan.”

“Sleep well, Anakin. Ahsoka.”

Obi-wan watched his former student and his Padawan amble back to the tents, occasionally trading whispers about the unrealistic nature of Obi-wan’s story.

The older Jedi leaned back, staring up at the night sky.

A chilly breeze swept through the clearing.

“It is a rather unbelievable tale,” a suave, cultured voice commented behind him.

Obi-wan smiled, not looking back.

“But aren’t those the best?”

The man hummed, amused and content. Obi-wan could nearly feel the mischievous, wide grin spreading across his sharp face.

“Indeed they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated whether to include this, but I kind of like the ending. We're not sure if this really is happening or not. Is this Obi-wan's story, something in Loki's diary, or something else altogether? No one knows (including the author). Realistically (because a Star Wars/MCU crossover is the best place to be talking about realism), Loki could probably use the portal to come back to the GFFA to annoy Obi-wan at certain points, but he doesn't give his secrets away.
> 
> In any case, that's it! My first cross-over! 
> 
> And now back to finishing some other projects, including "Endearment" (SW), "Deep Listening" (MCU), and the "Divergences" series (SW). 
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr! @legobiwan (for SW/Obi-wan Kenobi) or @be-a-snake-stab-your-brother (for MCU/Loki)


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